


Metalwork

by MechanizedHeart



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Avengers Family, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Domestic Avengers, Everyone Has Issues, Hurt Tony Stark, Hydra (Marvel), Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, Mechanic Tony Stark, Mild Gore, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Past Torture, Polyamorous Character, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Poor Tony, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Avengers, Psychological Torture, Sorry Not Sorry, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Team Bonding, Team Dynamics, Temporary Amnesia, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark-centric, Torture, stuckony - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 05:22:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21368830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MechanizedHeart/pseuds/MechanizedHeart
Summary: “Do you know who I am?”“You’re Steve Rogers… Captain America. Threat level, twenty.”“Did Hydra tell you why I’m a threat?”“...No.”“Because, I know who you are.”
Relationships: Brock Rumlow/Tony Stark, Bruce Banner/Thor, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark, Pepper Potts/James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 30
Kudos: 273





	1. Lost Cause

**Author's Note:**

> What up? I'm MH.  
This is my first fanfic.  
I don't own Marvel.  
Warnings will be in the tags, and tags will be added as need be.  
FINALLY GOT A BETA BITCHES! They go by the LilacIcarus, and I owe them my life.  
This chapter has been updated and beta read, so some minor changes have happened.  
Enjoy!

..::⎊::..

You ever read a page of a book, then immediately forget what you just read?

That's what it felt like. To have someone reach into your mind and jumble things around; make you forget what you've just managed to remember. A painful experience, designed to tear into the brain and scramble its working parts. He knew that feeling was coming when straps shackled him to the throne of his suffering. 

“You are being punished, my dear.” A voice- Sultry, feminine, and laced with a Russian accent. All her blonde strands wrapped up in a loose bun, and distasteful blue eyeshadow sat heavily on her eyelids. Doctor Emilia Belyakov. Because of her, he was pretty certain he would never love red lipstick on a woman again. A madness was ever present in those emeralds she called eyes. She stood in front of him, and reached out a finger to tap his chin, a signal to look at her. His dull gaze nervously met hers, “Do you know  _ why _ ?” her tone was soft and sweet, as if talking to a child who didn’t know any better. “Because not only did you fail to comply,” she paused again, probably for the dramatic effect, and, while there was a remark creeping up his throat in protest, he kept quiet. “you beat your handler’s skull in.” 

Ah, there was the edge to her words. Her smile evaporated as her attitude soured. His gaze never wavered from her. There was an itch inside him, one he couldn’t quite scratch. He wanted to be submissive and obey, didn’t he? He did…. Just something within him refused- denied the very idea of allowing this woman, or anyone else in the dark room he found himself in, to order him around. He felt his lips twitch up the slightest bit.

“He deserved it.” The rasp to his vocal cords hurt; a delightful cocktail of dehydration and screaming was the cause of his pain. There was a long pause between the two, where their eyes stayed locked to each other, and for a moment a little light returned to his. That’s all it took for the doctor to sigh with disappointment. 

Turning to her fellow lab coats in the chamber, she shook her head, “Lost cause. Wipe him.” Her heels clicked obnoxiously against the concrete floor as she made her way to the guarded and locked doors. Maximum security was always in place around him. At this moment, he knew why. Maybe later he’d forget and find it ridiculous; now he knew that, given the chance, he’d gladly rip everyone in the chamber apart. 

The scent of a familiar rubber mouthguard filled his nose as a lab technician nervously approached. He pulled against the straps on his wrists, and bared his clenched teeth at the anxious looking man. Immediately, the tension level in the room rose, and an agent stepped forward threateningly. He took the mouthguard from the smaller man shaking in his lab coat, and looked to the one strapped in the chair, 

“Open. Now.” The agent ordered. 

“No.” The victim snarled back. 

Two more agents approached; the first nodded, and the two reached around until they’d pried open his jaw. The first agent smirked and shoved the mouthguard in between parched lips. 

The animal they cornered bit down, grinding his teeth against the material. He loathed them, all of them, and he couldn’t place why, exactly, but he did. A lingering thought echoed in the halls of his mind: he should have listened. To whom, he didn’t remember. But he had this feeling that they were right about something. Something he should’ve done, or- not done? 

Sometimes in his moments of clarity, he’d ask himself,  _ "Who am I? Is this what I’m meant to be doing?" _ , and he can't breathe when he does. It’s the loneliness of it all; the regret. Sometimes feels like someone’s got him pushed under water, and he’s not allowed to come up for air. 

There was a hand against his chest then. It pushed him back, and a contraption came down around his head. It secured itself in place and though he could hear the voices around him, understand their language, his ears were already ringing and his breath stuttered. It was the tension in his muscles, the fear in his eyes, as he knew what was about to happen next, that was like the storm before the hurricane. 

The electricity coursing through his veins reminds him who he truly is. 

..::⎊::..

On the good days, they left him alone; left him to rot in his little box. The cell was pure, and white, and not easy on the eyes. Left to try and piece back together the jigsaw puzzle he called a brain. On the bad days? It was fear, and sweat, and work. So much work. His hands and eyes were exhausted by the time they dragged him back to the safety of that box. He preferred it really, over being out there. 

The Workshop, the Chamber, and the Labs. The only places he is allowed to exist. Separate, just enough to give him variety, but still not enough. He’s sure there’s more to the world than just that, but he’s never seen it; at least he doesn’t remember ever seeing it. Sometimes he yearns to be free.

It was always dark and quiet inside and out. He's pretty sure that same silence used to drive him insane. The times when his thoughts used to overpower his senses, and he couldn’t hear beyond his own racing equations and problem solving. 

Now things are different. His mind is… focused, on one thing over any other: follow orders.

Anyway, the silence was better than the screaming that had thundered through his throat during his play dates with the chair. And at least it wasn’t the barking voices, the sound of shackles slipping against ripped-raw and bleeding wrists, or the loud whimpers that were eventually torn from his lips.

It had gotten to the point where the only thing he could feel anymore, after all this time, was the quaking pain that flowed from his heart when the thoughts of home hit him hardest. He wasn’t even certain what home was. Home was not here, he knew that at the very least. Home was... Somewhere else. Someplace safe. Home was where the faces fluttered in and out of his subconscious, forgotten, but still there. Still  _ good. _ He knew what’s being done to him here was not. Some part of him wanted to cling to those memories that barely conjured themselves in the night. Another part? Well, the longer he stayed here, the more he's convinced that none of them quite matter anymore. After all, that life died out with the start of all his suffering, right?

Why dwell on a past he doesn't have?

His thoughts are refocused, like a camera lens adjusting, when pain flashes across his cheek. His current handler, standing there with his hand raised to inflict it again if he didn’t pay attention. He is supposed to be working, after all. He’s not sure what they’re having him build. He’s not allowed to know what anything is or what it’s for; what he’s working on. Only that he must create. Day in and day out, they take him from his safe little hole in the wall, drag him to the Workshop, set him in front of machine parts and gadgets with a dash of gizmos, and order him to piece things together. They never tell him, into what? They leave that part up to him, and he designs whatever comes to his screwed up head. After that, it's to the Chamber, and the chair, then back to the cell where he forgets all over again who he is; what he’s done. 

He doesn’t even know who they are. Why they’re doing all this to him. And he’s sure he’ll never get the answers, even if he were brave enough to ask. They are very bad people, he knows that much at the very least, and it nurses the smallest ember of rebellion in his soul.

However, he follows their orders, after all- he’s not a human. Not as far as he knows. He’s not supposed to think. He is designed to work, to fight if directed, and to serve. Following orders is his life purpose now, the only thing that gives him any meaning. He is what he is: The Mechanic. He'll be damned if he lets anyone take that away from him. If that's the only chance at a being he's allowed to have, he’s ready to fight to keep it.

Otherwise, who is he? 

..::⎊::..


	2. We'll Get him, Cap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Sorry for how long it took to upload. My beta and I are working hard to make chapters as perfect as the two of us can before I post here. It's a slow-going process. Apologies for that.  
Anyway, I'm MechanizedHeart, I don't own Marvel or it's characters, and here's chapter two!

..::✮::..

A train, a death, and a resurrection.

These days, Steve woke up to the world in tears; his heart pounding, and eyes dazed with his memories of the past. The images of his life flashed before his eyes in moments like these. All his failures stood out most. The losses. His mother, Peggy, the Commandos, Bucky… Himself. 

Light from the window hit across his blue eyes, made the wet trails glisten, and his lids squint. The room was dark, save for that sliver of illumination. Shadows crawled over his stuff: a king-sized bed in a room as big as the entire apartment he used to share with Buck before the war. The shelves were full of old novels and sketchbooks, a desk with a lamp and an old-fashioned radio. A picture of the Howling Commandos on a nightstand by his pillows. His space reminded him of simpler times. 

Maybe that’s why he so frequently awoke with nostalgia.

_ “Bucky?” _

_ “Who the hell is Bucky?” _

A sob crawled its way up his dry throat, and he turned on his side in the bed, curled up under the covers to hide his sorrows from the world. They would be disappointed if they knew Captain America cried too.

It’d been two years since that day. Since Steve found out his Bucky was alive. No, not his… That wasn’t the Buck he knew. That’d been that_ thing _Hydra had created: The Winter Soldier. A killing machine. Steve knew that’s not what Bucky wanted, to be a monster, and he hoped that meant something. 

Sometimes that's all Steve had in his life: hope.

There was a knock on his door, and Steve froze, silenced the sniffles. Steve never wanted anyone on the team to know their big, strong leader spent his mornings and nights wallowing in self pity. 

“Steve?” a smooth, calm voice called through the door. Natasha. Steve rubbed at his eyes with his sheets, an attempt to dry them and get rid of any evidence that he’d been crying. It didn’t work, if Natasha’s knowing look was anything to go by when he’d dragged himself out of his bed to open the door. 

“Nat. What is it?” Her knowing look turned to one of sympathy at the sight of his red nose and puffy eyes, something the good Captain could’ve done without in that moment, but he let it slide- polite as ever. 

“Tony has a lead on the Winter Soldier.”

Steve paused, trying to process that information. An inkling of doubt crossed his mind before he banished it. Romanov wouldn’t lie about something like that with Steve. The Winter Soldier… never Bucky. Only, Steve had this feeling that Bucky was still in there, and his mind kept returning to the memory of a metal arm rescuing him from the water.

“Where?” His question was firm. Determined to grab this opportunity while they could. 

“You should probably get dressed first, Captain.” Natasha’s humor was clear and meant to be easy-going; she understood why Steve was so eager. Steve blushed as he realized he was still in his choice of pajamas- a white t-shirt and tan shorts. He coughed, suddenly sheepish, 

“Uh, right.” Awkwardly, he closed the door, and made his way to his closet. If they had a lead, Steve wanted to be prepared. He grabbed his suit. Tony would call him a boy scout. Steve thinks Tony doesn’t worry enough. It was one of the many concerning things about the other man. Fully dressed, Steve attached his shield to his back and opened the door on a waiting, and highly amused, Black Widow. 

“Needed privacy there, Steve?” She asked with a nothing but innocent tone. 

“Closing the door was not optional, Natasha.” Steve chided her. A little spark returned to his eyes; the redness in his face had gone, for now. Natasha smirked, and the two made their way through the solid halls of the compound- a building Stark had created to house all the Avengers when the upper levels of the Tower became too crowded. Steve liked it, it reminded him of a military base, and he felt right at home. 

“What do we know?” was Steve’s first inquiry as he passed through the door to what the team had dubbed ‘The Meeting Room’. 

“A lot of stuff, Cap. You’ll have to be more specific.” was the first quip from Tony. Ah yes, already testing Steve’s patience first thing in the morning. Steve sent Tony the most exasperated expression he could, causing the genius to outright snicker. Seemed he was in a good mood today. Steve supposed he should be as well, if the lead actually goes anywhere.

“Tony and I gathered all our resources together,” Natasha started, “and we came up with a location. A possibility.” she explained, while Tony began pressing at buttons and worked his magic to bring up a holographic image. It was blurry, and hard to make out, but if Steve looked close enough, he could swear it was Buck. 

“Looks like bigfoot to me.” Clint stated. Tony grinned, and Bruce sighed. 

“What is a bigfoot?” Thor had asked. 

“Not now, please. Tony, where was this captured?” Steve demanded of the other man. 

“Mmm… Bucharest, Romania. Damn near about as remote as the guy could get, I’ll tell ya.” Tony remarked, almost as if he was impressed with the Soldier’s skills at laying low. Maybe he was. 

Steve wasn’t. 

Two years, _ two _years, and come to find out Romania had been where Buck was all this time? They’d practically scoured the entire earth for him, but somehow they’d missed Romania. Steve mentally kicked himself for his failure. “Do we know exactly where in Bucharest?” 

“No. Our sources couldn’t track his movements.” Natasha informed him. 

“Wouldn’t be surprised if he caught on to being followed and made a break for it.” Sam stated, crossing his arms. Steve resisted the urge to flinch, and his fingers twitched. That was a possibility, just one, but it was likely. Maybe Buck had already ran and hid again. Still, this was the only shot they had. 

“We have to make sure.” Steve proclaimed, resolve glimmering in his glacial blue spheres. The rest of the team felt, just by looking at him, this was going to be a no-nonsense mission. 

“I’ll tell Fury. Round up some of the agents.” Clint decided, already making his way to the door to leave. Shield had been exposed during Project Insight, and destroyed. That didn’t mean that Fury, Hill, and a few other agents weren’t still working together with the Avengers to protect the world. 

“Meet at the quinjet in an hour.” the Captain ordered. His Avengers obeyed. Even Tony, who normally bristled at every order given. Steve was grateful for Tony’s good mood, and just chalked it up to maybe he’d finished his projects in time, or that he succeeded in tracking down the Winter Soldier in the first place. 

Tony was the last to leave, approaching the Captain cautiously, hesitant to say what he wanted to say. Steve raised a brow, curious, yet silent. He knew not to push Tony to speak when the billionaire was being so uncharacteristically quiet. Finally, the genius opened his mouth,

“We’ll get him Cap… Don’t worry.” Tony gruffed, brushing shoulders with Steve on his way out of the meeting room. That had to be the closest to physical affection Tony would ever get. Steve knew the man wasn’t big on touching, and to have him willingly assure the Captain with it was something else to Steve. It hit differently- left him stunned for all of three minutes.

“I hope so.” Steve said to the air. 

..::✮::..

They had to give the Winter Soldier some credit; as Clint put it, _ “Dude’s good at playing hide and seek.” _ Buck had been picking out plums from a market stall when they’d finally tracked him down. This time, they kept their distance and kept an eye on him, followed him to the run-down and likely unstable apartment complex he was probably calling a home. 

“You’re up, Steve.” Sam whispered into the comms as Steve snuck his way into the room first. This was supposedly the right address, the right apartment, and Steve hoped it was, or not only would this be awkward, it would be a mission failed. Steve looked around as casually as he could without disturbing the space. It was rugged, and more homeless than homey. There was food in the fridge, and a table with some newspapers scattered across it. It piqued Steve's interest that the articles about the Avengers were circled on every page they were mentioned. Steve’s name was underlined every time.

He heard a creaking behind him. He was sure he wouldn’t have picked it up if it weren’t for his enhanced hearing. He tensely turned around. Steve Rogers came face-to-face with the Soldier once again. Steve could tell the man was on edge. 

“Do you know who I am?” The Captain asked of the Soldier. There were probably better questions to inquire in the moment, but this one… this one he had to know. Steel grey-blue eyes matched his, and Steve picked up the faintest hint of recognition within them. Just barely hidden by despair and confusion. 

“You’re Steve… Read about you in a museum.” It was so good to hear Buck’s voice again. It was softer, more raspy, as if he wasn’t used to using it. It saddened Steve. The Captain tried to keep his posture open, and as relaxed as he could, given the circumstances. However, he wasn’t stupid, he knew what the Soldier was capable of, and he also knew that cornering him probably hadn’t been the brightest plan.

“I know you’re scared.” he offered. 

The perimeter of the apartments was surrounded by Avengers and Agents alike. They’d trapped the Soldier in.

“I’m not scared.” the Soldier had stated firmly, a warning in his voice. 

Steve should have known that plan wasn’t good from the get go: caging an animal like that. Well, at least the Soldier had talked to him. Which was more progress than punching him to death or just running away again. Steve saw fingers twitch on a gloved hand, “Don’t-” But it was too late and the Soldier made a run for the back door, smashing his hand into the floorboard on his way to grab at a backpack that had been hidden beneath the wood. Thankfully, when he opened the door, he was met with a rather nonchalant Romanov, 

“Hey there, soldier. Miss me?" Her Russian was fluent as it flowed from her lips. 

“No.” had been his response, also in the same foreign language.

“English, please.” had been Steve’s, unable to understand the Russian.

It shouldn’t have been so surprising when the Soldier's body slammed into Natasha, and sent her flying back, almost off the balcony of the building. The man ran past her, hoisting himself over the railing and letting himself fall the fifteen stories down to land with a roll up to his feet.

Steve cursed. “All hands on deck, he’s loose!”

“Aye, aye, Captain!” Several voices responded, and if Steve rolled his eyes while giving chase to his best friend, well, only Natasha saw it.

Steve was fast, but the Soldier was faster. Natasha apparently had three more brain cells than either of the two; she hitched a ride with Falcon. Only a few blocks away, and they’d cornered the Soldier again; this time in an alley with IronMan pointing an illuminated palm at him from one side, and Thor poised behind Tony as back up. Barton was situated in the buildings above, pointing an arrow at the runaway. The Soldier was trapped yet again, and he looked on the edge of a decision between who to fight first. Steve, Sam, and Natasha had locked down his only other escape route. The Soldier turned halfway, attempting to keep Tony in sight while facing the trio. 

“Buck, just stop! Listen, we’re not here to hurt you.” Steve tried. The Soldier ignored him in favor of having a staring contest with the Widow first, 

"Not nice to push a lady around, Yasha." She had cooed playfully, and yet again in Russian; only an edge of something deeper and darker in her voice. 

"You’re not a lady. A lady doesn’t do what you’ve done." The Soldier countered. 

"That’s rude." Widow coyly argued. 

"But true… Get out of the way." Winter demanded.

"How about we all take a breath," There was a threatening pause to her words, "and listen to the good Captain, instead?" Nat was leaving no room for argument, whatever she was saying. Steve wasn’t sure per se; he could pick up the attitude between them, the tension, and he was sure that he could have cut it with his shield. However, the actual words were lost on him.

"Move. Now." The Soldier had clenched his fists in warning.

"No." That one Steve recognized as something Bucky’s voice had stated in their previous interaction. Still, he didn’t appreciate the two not including the team in their little conversation. Maybe he was a little more than salty that the Soldier would rather chat with Widow than him. 

“Sure Steve, I’d love to stay and chat, you got any tea? A beer, maybe?” Steve growled out, his eyes had narrowed as he directed the snide comment towards the Soldier. Judging from the man’s stiff posture, he was bound to snap at any moment, despite the fact that he must know he was outnumbered.

“I could go for a beer. How ‘bout you big guy?” Tony addressed Thor, his metallic voice had echoed around the walls of the alley.

“Indeed.” Thor commented back, keeping his eyes trained on the Soldier, hammer at the ready. 

“What do you say, Barnes? Want to end this all right now?” Sam asked, using a gentle tone that he reserved for his patients and veteran meetings. 

“I don’t wanna hurt anybody…” The Soldier had warily stated. His quiet voice silenced the rest. There had been a sort of brokenness to it then. Less secure and confident in himself, Yet still sure in that moment that the peaceful option was what he wanted. Steve could respect that. Besides, the fact that the ex-Hydra weapon was willing to admit that he didn’t want to cause harm was a big step in the right direction. They couldn’t be too careful though, as the Soldier had yet to show any signs of letting his guard down. 

“Then stand down…” Steve had said back, matching the pitch of the Soldier. He needed the Soldier, no, he needed _ Bucky _to know they were equals, that no one was treating him like Hydra had, that he wasn’t just some weapon the Avengers wanted to use. “We’re not looking for a fight. We wanna talk.”

“Maybe you do too.” Tony chimed in, a serious note to his usually snarky ways. Steve wondered if he was actually trying to be helpful, and the Captain couldn’t be more grateful if that was the case. 

“Then talk.” The Soldier commanded.

..::✮::..


	3. Flashes of the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't know what to say other than: I don't own Marvel, just this fanfic, and here's an update.

..::⎊::.. 

"Jericho. Red. Star. Engine. Mark. Reactor. Iron. Soldier."

"Ready to comply."

"Build." Came the order. He obeys, and looks at the tools and materials spread across the expanse of the table before him. His mind begins to easily conjure up several different objects he could create with all that is laid out before him. Mostly weapons of some kind. So that's what he builds. 

He has a feeling he's built them before. 

He's not supposed to feel. 

His fingers grip at the tools, the tips singed with heat, oil, and smoke as he works towards his goal. There are six heavily armed guards standing at posts throughout the workshop, ready to put him down should he not comply. As if he, himself, were some kind of weapon. A ridiculous notion, in his opinion, especially with his handler standing right there, asking the rare occasional inquiry to what he was creating. 

The Mechanic's not supposed to have opinions. 

But what his handler doesn't know won't hurt anything. 

His eyes flutter over to the wrench nearest his person; he avoids it. He has a feeling grabbing it would make the guards itchy. 

He doesn't know he used that wrench to smash his previous handler's skull in.

His fingers hurt. They never give him gloves, not caring if he should hurt himself. He thinks that's a bit irrational, given that he needs his hands to work for them, and if he doesn't have the proper protective wear, he could lose one. 

He doesn't know the last time he lost a hand, it just regenerated itself.

His dull autumn brown eyes categorize each part of the weapon he's building. At this point, he's identified it as a missile. He pauses. 

_ "He wants you to build the missile." _

_ Water, ice cold, plunging into his lungs. Sparks electrifying through his body. Pain. _

_ "Your life's work, in the hands of those murderers! Is that how you want to go out?" _

Pain. It hurts. Breathing aches. 

_ "Is this the last act, of the great-" _

He doesn't hear the orders being shouted his way. His face contorted in pain as he feels blood spurt across it, a body writhing beneath him. He doesn't feel the ache in his fingers from where he's clawing at his Handler's face. Ripping his nails; tearing the eyes beneath them.

_ "Or are you going to do something about it?!" _

He feels hands tugging at his body. Hears roaring in his ears. He can't tell if it's the blood pumping through his body or his vocal chords straining with the pain and anger bubbling at his surface. 

He doesn't feel the electricity pulse across his body. He's felt that before. It takes a second shock, before darkness claims his vision.

_ "Don't waste your life, Stark." _

..::⎊::.. 

"... Reactor. Iron. Soldier."

"Ready to comply."

"Build." Came the order. He obeys, looking at the tools and materials spread across the expanse of the table before him. His mind begins to easily conjure up several different objects he could create with all that is laid out before him. Mostly weapons of some kind. So that's what he builds.

He has a feeling he's built them before. 

Feelings mean nothing. He needs to stop having them. 

His fingers ache as he screws in a bolt. It's a familiar feeling, almost comforting to him in a way. The object starts to take shape. An arm? 

Why would he build an arm? 

The arm appears robotic in nature, with some sort of repulsor-like configuration taking shape at it's palm. 

_ "... to incorporate the latest proprietary Repulsor Technology." _

His nose scrunches as the thought echoes in his head. It's his voice, he thinks. But he doesn't remember ever saying such words.

"Mechanic. Report."

"Building a weapon that incorporates the latest proprietary Repulsor Technology, Sir." Worth a shot, right? 

"Excellent. Keep working." The Mechanic obeys once more, shoving all thoughts aside and working stiffly to get his job done. By the time he refocuses from the blank space of his mind, the arm is finished and he's moved onto a leg. 

_ 'What am I building?' _ He thinks, before silently berating himself for doing so in the first place. He is not made to question, he is made to create, to fix, and to follow commands. Still, the leg reminds him of something. His head throbs. 

_ "Day 11. Test 37, configuration 2.0." _

His hand grips the hammer it holds tighter. 

_ "For lack of a better option, Dummy is still on fire safety. If you douse me again, and I'm not on fire, I'm donating you to a city college." _

A pang of emotion surges from his heart, something that could only be described as longing. How can he have this feeling, like he misses something dear to him? He's not supposed to have feelings.

The Mechanic doesn't register being strapped to the Chair until his body convulses in pain.

..::⎊::..

"... Iron. Soldier."

"Ready to comply."

"Build." Came the order. He obeys, looking at the tools and materials spread across the expanse of the table before him. His eyes feel heavy, as if he hasn't slept in weeks. He can't remember if he has, anyway. 

_ "You should rest Tony, you've been down here for days."  _

_ A woman, with bright red hair and a white pant-suit. It was hard to say no to her.  _

_ "What if I get you drunk first, will you sleep then?"  _

_ "No, that would only serve to get me in bed, Honeybear." _

_ A man covered head-to-toe in military garb. He has a hard time not messing with him. He always did enjoy the way it flustered the other.  _

_ "Seriously, take a nap or somethin' man, you're stressin' me out." _

_ "I'll rest when this is finished, Legolas." _

Arrows. He was working on arrows. As he looks down at the object before him, he realizes it too, is an arrow. Explosive bi-carbonate tip, exquisitely balanced, mechanical feathering edged to perfection. He doesn't know why, but he wishes he could paint it purple. 

_ "What do you mean, 'what's my favorite color?' Can't take a guess, Metalhead?" _

_ 'Birdbrain.' _ He inwardly scoffs. He freezes at the realization that he just fondly thought up a nickname for the voice speaking in his head.

"Mechanic. Is something wrong?"

He blinks, trying to refocus his thoughts. 

_ "Seriously, you're going to have to sleep at some point. This isn't healthy. J.A.R.V.I.S?" _

_ "Captain Rogers is correct sir, you've reached 42 hours without rest. I would highly recommend it." _

He remembered hating when  _ Spangles _ was right.

_ A soft blanket draped over his semi-slumbering form, the blurry image of a red star painted on silver appearing in his sleepy vision. _

_ "Let's think of this like men of science. You. Need. Sleep. Even the other guy agrees, in fact I'll let him  _ ** _put _ ** _ you to sleep if I have too." _

_ He forgot he's not actively supposed to piss BrucieBear off, is he? _

_ "Howardson! Banner has regaled me of your troubles with sleep! I've come to offer my services as a pillow! I have been told I make a great one!" _

The Mechanic nearly chokes on tears, the feeling of his limp body, being dragged away vaguely registering in the back of his mind. The feeling of sorrow gnawing away at his soul almost too much to handle. His whole body feels exhausted. 

_ "What do you want, Romanov?" _

_ "You seem to have forgotten I can put you in a choke hold just as easy as flexing my pinky finger, Tony. Go to bed." _

He doesn't mind it when the electricity puts him to sleep.

..::⎊::..


End file.
